Basic Chemistry
by Miffles
Summary: Sequel to The Joker Also Sleeps, and second in the Adventures Of Scarecrow And Joker series. The Joker and Scarecrow develop a business relationship, hearts are won, hearts are shot, and everyone has a good laugh in the end.
1. Chapter 1

An antique car is viewed by many as a prized luxury. In its simplest form, such a car is a classic. It is an automobile straight out of the pages of history that one may drive through the streets of modern America with pride. It may bring back memories of a calmer, simpler time when the greatest threats were Communism and Civil Rights. A time when mom always had meatloaf ready right after you finished your homework. With enough dedication and patience, restoration may leave the car as shining and spectacular as it was when Mr. Johnson first drove it off the lot with his wife and two children.

The 1952 Studebaker grinding down the swamped roads of Gotham City was not up to the standards of other such classic cars. The engine groaned, the brakes squealed, the radio was busted, the interior was shredded, the rear-view mirror fell off constantly, and only half of the once ruby-red paint job remained. With a screech that could have easily deafened any dog within a five mile radius of Arkham Asylum, the sad excuse for a Studebaker came to a halt to behold the manic frenzy dying at the asylum. Inside the Studebaker, the very shocked and worried doctor eyed the crowd of straight-jacketed doctors and patients surrounded by gaggles of reporters and police officers. Her lips parted.

"Oh…my God…"

Before she could step out of the car, an officer rushed to her door. "Ma'am, I'm gonna have to ask you to turn around and-"

"Officer," she willed away her panic-stricken face and threw on her professional mask of distant observation. "I have to get through, I work here."

The officer paused. Dr. Crane and the Joker were confirmed to be out of the area, those exposed to the fear toxin were gathered for the most part, and orders were to allow authorized personnel into the building to subdue the remaining patients.

"May I see some identification?"

With a quick nod the woman pulled out her purse and rummaged through spare change and Nicotine gum foil in search of her wallet. She handed her license and hospital badge to the burly officer and waited as he called in over his walkie-talkie. He looked over the two laminated cards and pressed down the thick black button of the walkie-talkie. He was greeted with static.

"I have a woman here requesting permission to enter Arkham." The officer squinted and strained to read the name correctly.

"Harleen Quinzel."

He released the button like a trigger and surveyed the area. He passed the license and badge back to Harleen.

"Thanks…" she said with a hint of annoyance. Whatever had happened to cause this chaos was enough to bring in a SWAT team, but not enough for her to be paged at home. Harleen clipped the badge onto her coat and slid the license back in her wallet. "What happened here?"

The officer's brow raised in surprise. How could anyone have not heard? "Two patients escaped around six this morning; sent the place into a riot."

Harleen's lips pursed. "Just two?" She raised a brow and surveyed the chaotic area. She had only been working at Arkham since the week before, and wasn't familiar with any two patients who were capable of something on that scale.

"Yeah, well, _just two _was enough to get even Batman's attention. Guy swooped in and jetted out about an hour ago. Casualties have been moved to Gotham South. We still need to keep the place under lock and key. Things just went to Hell and-"

The walkie-talkie sprang to life.

_"Dr. Harleen Quinzel, clear for entry."_

As soon as the message was sent, the device was silent once more.

"Alright, doctor, drive around back. Be careful." The officer gently banged the side of the Studebaker as it cranked into motion. Harleen nodded and drove along the route dictated by officers waving her along.

"Thank you, officer. I was planning on plowing through bystanders. But now that you've asked me to 'be careful,' I think I'll just mosey on down around back," she muttered. "Dipshit."

After the parking ordeal that ultimately lasted ten minutes, Harleen managed to crawl out of her scrap metal mobile and squeeze through the tightly-packed parking lot with her purse and briefcase. After flashing her identification to the two men at the door, she was finally able to see the churning chaos within Arkham first-hand. Water trickled through the hallways. Blood dripped from drying pools on the walls. Patients were dragged away screaming by beaten nurses and doctors. Harleen pushed her hair back behind her ear as she looked around in horror. She stared blankly for a moment before a hand was placed on her shoulder.

"Ma'am."

Harleen spun around as though she had been punched. Instead, she was being smiled at by a security guard.

"I…yes?"

"Sorry to startle you, ma'am, I just need to ask you to move along. Keep things running."

Harleen parted to lips, but instead of responding took up her steps once more. All she had to do was get to her office, grab her charts, and check in with her superiors.

Before she could get to her office floor, Harleen aided in escorting two patients back to their cells, one guard to a nurse for some patching up, and nearly slipped in a puddle of blood. The briefcase ached in her hand, and she just wanted her haven. She finally arrived on her floor and began walking down the hallway her office resided in.

The doctor stopped in her tracks. Her office's window was smashed open. Blood droplets had glided down to the wooden frame. Harleen looked into the office before slipping her way inside, her eyebrows strung together. A panel had been removed from her floor. She was careful to step around the broken glass, and she noted a few other droplets of blood on the tile. Scattered around them were threads from some dingy brown fabric. Harleen set her briefcase on her desk and looked in her drawers. Nothing had been taken as far as she could tell.

"The hell…" she murmured under her breath.

Harleen shook her head and grabbed a few patient files before rushing out to help keep order in any way she could.


	2. Chapter 2

(Note: I plan on finishing this story, but as of yet have no further plans . My former pen name was Miffles).

Sight was something so many people took for granted. It is the way we gather the majority of our observations of the world, after all. These observations are a necessity for any professional to continue working. And so, when Dr. Crane was without solid sight for a good month, he found himself stagnating in his lack of observation. His mind began to fold itself like an origami bird. Every aspect of him confronted every other one. He could hear the screams, but it wasn't the same if he couldn't see their faces too. Thankfully, his window to the visual world returned to him almost as good as it had been before. His eyelids were somewhat scratched from the debris of the Arkham halls, but they would fade with time. His eyes were crisp blue, though still puffy from his flu. Nothing that wouldn't clear up on its own.

He sat in the sleazy Narrows motel. He hated having to roost in such unfortunate arrangements, but it gave him room to work and think in peace. And pieces. Pieces of Jonathan, Dr. Crane, Scarecrow. They were all little pieces that needed to work together to get anything done in his mess of a mind. His brain was a delicate office filled with information to be dealt with accordingly. File the memories from the formulas; alphabetize the plans, document patients and victims. A Dewey decimal system of higher education and terror, all in his mind. Every thought was critical.

Scarecrow slept while Jonathan worked. He took the orders Dr. Crane gave him. Rework the formula, manipulate the compound. Leaf upon leaf of paper passed over his desk as he erased chemicals and added new elements. He re-calculated the math that had given him his earliest formula. It was the weaker form he had used for small-scale testing. He knew he was an idiot to make a deal with the Joker, but he wasn't enough of a fool to give the clown something he could do any sort of serious damage with. The Joker didn't need outside stimuli for that.

And that's why Scarecrow envied him.

That evening, Jonathan began approaching a breakthrough with the compound. Well, to most it would have been a breakthrough. To him, it was a bastardization of his child. A sick, deformed version of a glorious being that would run through perverse hands. Had he not seen it from beginning to end, he wouldn't have even recognized it himself.

There was a cheap television in the room that flickered static when it was on. Jonathan needed to step back from his work. It was upsetting him. He flipped on GCN, one of two channels available in the hotel. A commercial played while the news team scrambled to get their act together.

Across town in the studio, people were indeed abuzz.

"Give me a time."

"Twenty seconds."

"Good. Can I get hair over here?" the anchor demanded in the cloak of a question. He didn't realize the hair stylist had already started fixing the cowlick on the back of his head.

"Already on it."

"Huh? Yeah. Good." The anchor took a deep breath when hair stepped away. Something was making him sick. "Anyone else eat the fish today? Just feels kind of-"

"Fifteen seconds."

The anchor shook it off. Big story. Big unveiling. Big guest. Guest. Guest? No, there was no guest. He was turning it over to Lydia Filangeri. He couldn't do field work yet. No big, upsetting stories. He was just supposed to welcome everyone and turn the reigns over to Lydia. And that was good. No point in melting down on the air.

He felt so sick.

It was just the fish. The nerves. Why was he nervous? He had his sabbatical, his therapy, his medication. He took a few more breaths and looked over his notecards. Don't flub your lines. Don't come on too strong, but still be strong.

"And we're live in five…four…three…"

Jonathan watched as the Gotham Tonight logo and theme music flashed over the television.

"Two…" the producer pointed to the anchor.

"Good evening everyone, and welcome to Gotham Tonight. I'm Mike Engel. Tonight we have a bit of good news for the people of Gotham. After over a year of construction, Wayne Manor is finally welcoming home one of Gotham's favorite sons. On the story is my colleague Lydia Filangeri. Lydia?"

The camera switched to a view of the party at Wayne Manor. Party-goers crossed the elaborately-lit lawn, each heading to their designated dining tables. A string orchestra filled a corner of the front lawn near the entrance. A giant red-ribbon had been wound around the entire building, coming to an elaborate bow in front of the doorway. The GCN field reporter was stationed towards the gate with the rest of the reporters and cameras. Each had their space. Each had a chance to grill the guests. Lydia stared at the camera, the audio feed yet to catch up with her. She was dressed as classily as anyone else at the party, but with her press-pass hanging from her sash.

"Thank you, Mike. As you can see, the turnout for this Homecoming Gala is brimming with every notable name in Gotham. It's truly a family reunion of sorts, with the Wayne family's long-time friends and business partners here to bring Bruce Wayne back to the home he has rebuilt. Now, as of yet no one has been allowed within the mansion itself. The official statement is that this is to keep Wayne's return ceremonious, while others have said it is to avoid an incident much like the one that made the reconstruction necessary."

Back to Mike.

"You mean the incident in which Bruce Wayne set fire to the mansion in a drunken stupor?" The producer behind the camera shook his head.

Lydia struggled to keep a smile.

"Yes, Mike, that would be it. So far there's no sign of the guest of honor, but he is anticipated to arrive within the hour."

"Thanks, Lydia, I'm sure you'll keep us up to date on that."

"You'll be the first I tell."

They shared a stale, fake laugh.

Mike shook his head softly as the camera stayed on him.

"We'll be checking back with Lydia through the night. Up next, we have an interview with Andrea Wilcox, one of the guards at Arkham Asylum. She'll be giving us her account of the escape made by two of Gotham's most notorious criminals last month. That's coming up after these messages and an update from Lydia."

They were off air, and Mike took off his earpiece. He needed to walk. Pace.

Jonathan muted the television as the commercials came on. In Dr. Crane's analytical mind, he knew exactly what would happen that night. Even Scarecrow woke up to watch.


End file.
